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I TRADED THE CAR TO a local villager for a night’s lodging and a ride, the next morning, to the closest train station. By the time we made it to Bern, John’s forehead burned with fever, and though he didn’t complain, every jostle of the train pained him. Our first stop was a hospital, where his bullet wound could be properly cleaned and re-sutured. I checked him and Nigel in under their cover identities, since that was the only paperwork we had, and made up a story about how they’d acquired their injuries. These were hard times, and the doctors didn’t ask too many questions. Even though Switzerland remained a neutral country, Gestapo spies were everywhere, and we risked a knife to the back should we be identified. John’s situation did not look good, and I feared the doctors would amputate the arm if he didn’t receive penicillin to stop the infection.
I’d been given a phone number to memorize when I took up my post in Oberndorf. If I had to leave Germany and successfully made it into Switzerland, the number was to be used to make contact with the OSS. While Nigel’s injuries were seen to, I prowled the hospital halls, finally stumbling across a private office with a telephone.
“Geffen Shipping and Trading,” a woman’s voice chirped in French.
“The pigeon flew the coop.”
“Hold the line please.”
A series of clicking sounds happened, then a male voice came on. “Code name.”
“Fleur-di-lis.”
“Do you have company?”
“I’m alone.”
“Your emergency?”
“I need penicillin. Our mission went bad. My partner was injured.”
“Where are you?”
“Bern, Switzerland.”
“Take him to the local hospital.”
“I’m at the hospital. The wound is infected. If he doesn’t get the antibiotics, they’ll take the arm.”
“Go to the Café Turnhalle on Speichergasse 4. Your contact will be wearing a brown overcoat with a white scarf. He’ll have a French copy of War and Peace.”
“Will he have the penicillin?”
“Negative. He’ll bring you in.”
“I don’t need to be brought in. I need the medicine.”
“Go to the Café Turnhalle—”
“Forget it, I’m not leaving my partner.” I hung up and, with dragging steps, returned to check on my patients.
Nigel modeled a new white plaster cast and reclined on a pair of pillows. The dormitory-style room housed a dozen beds, all full, Nigel’s closest to the door. He smiled as I approached. “How is the other fellow?” His French was quite good but spoken with a distinct English accent.
Nigel’s French accent should have troubled me more, but for the moment, John’s situation remained my uppermost concern. Something in my expression gave my thoughts away.
“Bad?”
“The wound’s infected. He needs penicillin or he’ll lose the arm.”
“Have you anyone you can contact?”
“I just did.” I shook my head.
“Bloody hell,” he mumbled in English. “Hand me those trousers.”
“No, Nigel. What are you doing? You need to rest. Get back into bed,” I hissed in French.
“We are going to the British Embassy. Blast. I can’t get these trousers over the cast. They’ll need to be cut.”
“Nigel. Stop it. You can’t get out of bed.”
His brows furrowed. “Are you going to get me something to cut these trousers or am I going to have to do it myself?”
I lost the staring contest. “Fine. Wait here.”
Two hours later, I walked out of the British Embassy with my hopes flagging. Nigel, or Lord Graydon as I learned, had been treated like the prodigal son returned, and though they were thrilled to have their royalty out of German hands, they claimed not to have access to the necessary antibiotics. I left Nigel enjoying a cup of tea in the embassy’s capable hands, the staff readying a room for him for the night. Nigel talked me up at the embassy, and they were kind enough to offer me accommodations as well, but I declined. Instead, I returned to the hospital to check on John.
The doctors had given him something to abate the fever and dull the pain, but the sergeant claimed the wound burned like a firestorm anytime he shifted. His coloring was pale and his brow permanently furrowed with discomfort. I promised him the medicine would be coming and his arm would improve once he had it. The assurances assuaged some of the concern writ over his face.
I resolved to, in the morning, hunt down Allen Dulles, the head of Bern OSS operations, and wring his neck until he coughed up the penicillin or directed me to someone who would.
I awoke in the middle of the night to find a man in a white doctor’s lab coat administering a shot to John. It took me a moment to come fully awake and realize I didn’t recognize the doctor. Thoughts of poison had me flying out of the uncomfortable wooden chair at him like an angry tornado.
“Was ist das?” What is that? I grabbed his wrist.
“Calm yourself, fräulein. It is the medicine you have been looking for.” He responded in German but, with his other hand, held up a vial written in English: PENICILLIN.
I released his arm. “Who are you?”
“You may call me Franz. I apologize. Your message was delayed, otherwise I would have arrived sooner. We have two nurses and an orderly on our payroll who are willing to keep an eye on your patient.”
“Thank you.” I yawned and rubbed my eyes. “I didn’t think anyone was going to help him.”
He adjusted his glasses and pulled a piece of paper from his lab coat pocket. “You need to get some rest. Here is the address of a gasthaus. A reservation has been made in your name. You are expected.”
The next morning John’s fever broke and the swelling dissipated.
Five days after crossing the border into Switzerland, Franz’s crew arranged for our safe passage out of Switzerland into Allied-occupied France. We headed toward Mourmelon, where John could return to his company. When Nigel discovered we were leaving, he asked to hitch a ride with us. He had orders to report to Châteaudun, an Allied airbase north of Mourmelon, where he would catch a flight back to Britain. He declared a fondness for our company and determined to continue with us for our last leg of the journey. My own directive remained unchanged—report to Paris. I loosely interpreted the order to mean after I escorted John back to the 101st. Our trio set out with fresh papers restoring our identities.
My first impression of the army city could best be described as brown. Muddy, half-frozen roads were lined with faded brown tents. A platoon of soldiers, dressed in shades of chocolate, marched in precise rows. The tents were occasionally broken up by wooden barrack-style buildings, and in the distance, planes roared overhead as they came in for approach on the landing strip.
The brown city buzzed with activity, and we were misdirected twice before locating battalion headquarters for the sergeant’s company. Our ride finally stopped in front of one of the wooden buildings. I helped Feinberg out of the ambulance transport, thanked the driver, and turned to find Nigel in the doorway of the building.
“Must pay my respects to your commanding officer for sending you Yanks to rescue me,” Nigel said by way of explanation and crutched his way into a barren foyer with scratched wooden floors and the musty smell that comes with water damage.
A door to our left opened and the foyer filled with male voices. A dozen or more captains, lieutenants, and sergeants filed out of the room. Some milled in the foyer carrying on conversations; others passed us on their way out the front door.
Glassman’s eyes alighted on our little troop and he came over to greet us. He was clean shaven and his new uniform sported the gold bar of a second lieutenant.
“Glad to see you’ve returned.” Glassman shook hands with the sergeant, eyeing the arm in the sling. “What happened?”
“Long story, and I’m not sure I can talk about it.” His eyes slid to me for direction.
“Maybe over a couple of beers—after the war is over.” I grinned.
“Forget the beer. Once this war is over, I’m curling up with a fifth of single malt scotch.” Then he turned to me. “You’re looking well, Saint James.”
“Congratulations seem to be in order, Lieutenant.”
His ears turned pink.
“Lord Graydon, I’d like to introduce Second Lieutenant Glassman. This man saved my life. I owe him everything.”
“Then, Lieutenant, I, too, owe you my life, because if it weren’t for this lady and the sergeant here, I’d likely be toes up by now. Call me Nigel.”
As the two shook hands, Jake joined our group, and I made introductions, but my distracted gaze kept flashing past his shoulder in hopes of catching Charlie’s eye. He remained in the doorway, his face serious, speaking in low tones with a young captain I didn’t recognize. A swell of pleasure filled me.
Nigel bumped my shoulder, and my attention returned to the men in front of me as he joked lightheartedly, “I spent a few days enjoying German hospitality.”
“Like that, was it? Then I’m doubly glad you made it back in one piece. You too, Lily. Someone’s bad humor should improve with your return.” Jake grinned and turned to Nigel. “We can’t seem to keep this one away from playing with the damn Nazis. Ungrateful brat went back for more after we worked so hard to rescue her from the Jerries the first time.”
I crossed my arms. “Glassman, you mean. If I recall, you were cozily ensconced in your French hotel while P Company did the hard work.”
Jake chuckled. “Had I known a beautiful agent waited in the tower, I can assure you I would have been on the front lines of engagement.”
“You are quite the Don Juan,” I said dryly. It was nice to be back with Jake. We understood each other, and if we made it through this war, I knew I had a friend for life.
“Sergeant, Saint James, in my office.” Charlie pointed with two fingers as he crossed the foyer and entered another door. The curt tone he used didn’t bode well.
Jake and I exchanged a glance. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this conversation later.”
I followed Feinberg and Nigel into a cramped office that housed a scarred desk covered in papers and file folders. A tall filing cabinet with chipped green paint was in the corner, and two wooden chairs sat haphazardly in front of the desk. Charlie flipped a few of the papers over as I closed the door.
“So ... you made it back.” He walked behind his desk and put his hands on hips.
Feinberg snapped to attention.
“At ease, sergeant.” He took in Feinberg’s sling, Nigel and his cast, before raking me from head to toe with an enigmatic expression.
He looked better than the last time I’d seen him. His uniform didn’t hang so loose, the dark circles of weariness beneath his eyes had lightened, and the curling hair at the nape of his neck had disappeared due to a fresh haircut. A world of good came from time off the front lines.
Nigel cleared his throat and broke my moony-eyed trance. “Major McNair, may I introduce Lord Graydon, Captain in the Royal Air Force.”
“Major, I would like to express my sincerest gratitude to you and the 101st for allowing these two to risk their lives to come fetch me.”
“Anything for the RAF, Lord Graydon, though I really cannot claim any of the accolades for the mission.” An aloof glance pierced me before reverting to the pilot.
“Call me Nigel. All the more reason for my gratitude. I assure you the Royal family sends its appreciation as well. Who would have thought I’d be rescued by a Yank paratrooper and beautiful American spy?”
“Yes ... who would have thought?” Charlie said through tight lips. “Tell me about the arm.”
I opened my mouth to explain, but John beat me to it. “It’s just a scratch, Major.” He removed the sling with barely a wince. “I’d like to return to my platoon.”
Charlie turned his gaze on me and raised a questioning brow.
I sighed. “He is better but will need some R and R so it can heal properly. It was touch and go for a while and the Swiss doctors were reluctant to release him. I promised he would get some rest.”
Feinberg made an irritated grunt in the back of his throat and stiffened. The balloon of happiness that carried me into this room had dissolved as Charlie spoke, so aloof and detached. Now the guilt piled on. The fault for John’s injury lay directly at my feet. The poor man wanted nothing more than to return to his unit, and, best intentions or not, my comments would delay that action.
“What exactly happened?” he said through thinned lips.
“Well...” I brushed at a stray hair. The mission involved one of his own men and Charlie should be cleared to hear the details. Personally, I desperately wished to tell him what happened. However, training that had been drilled into me from the beginning of my time at the OSS had me hedging. “We, uh, took some enemy fire.” My eyes darted around the room, anywhere but into that disapproving blue gaze that surely knew I prevaricated.
“Bloody drunken SS kid shot his superior right in front of us, then took a couple of potshots at us, didn’t he?” The wooden chair creaked as Nigel lowered himself onto it. “Blam, blam.” He demonstrated with his crutch. “The sergeant here saved our bacon, driving that old rattletrap of German machinery like a prize filly at Ascot. It was brilliant. First, he fixed the car with the lady’s stocking—”
Charlie’s brows winged up at that.
“—then he tore through the forest after being shot in the arm. Fellow kept his head the entire time. I fell onto the floorboards, and Gisele here almost took one between the eyes. Missed her by an inch if that.” He demonstrated with his thumb and forefinger.
Charlie’s jaw hardened and I gasped. Listening to Nigel unfold the story was like watching a train coming at me full speed—I knew I needed to jump out of the way, but I couldn’t seem to find the words to tell him to stop talking.
Onward he plowed, “Good thing he missed, because the two of us blokes would have been in a heap of trouble if she’d been shot. Right, mate? We should start calling her Nurse Nightingale, for it was she who sewed your sergeant up with some thread from her shoulder bag. Quite a handy little item. Honestly, I simply did not have the stomach for it. And, boy, did we get an earful, eh?” Nigel elbowed me. “Although who could blame the chap? No morphine or even a shot of whiskey to numb the pain. It’s not her fault the wound got infected; after all, that’s the risk when you are doing field surgery on the fly. I can’t say enough about Gisele. This filly’s got gumption, driving us to the border and sweet-talking that German officer who might have recognized her at any second. And the doc said the sergeant’s arm will soon be right as rain.”
My hands fisted tightly and my teeth were clenched so hard while Nigel recounted our escapade I would not have been surprised if they disintegrated beneath the pressure. He seemed oblivious to Charlie’s flared nostrils and darkening expression. Feinberg, too, stood mute with astonishment.
“Yes, well, it ... not ... so dramatic...” No appropriate words came to mind.
“Feinberg, I’ll speak to your company commander and get you sorted out. In the meantime, why don’t you take Captain Graydon and see about getting yourselves some chow. I’m sure you’re hungry and I would like to speak privately with the lady.”
“Oh.” Nigel used the crutches to pull himself to his feet. “Brilliant. I would die for a spot of tea. Gisele, I will look for you later. Our journey’s end has not yet arrived.” He saluted.
“Yes, later,” I said weakly.
The door closed. Charlie paced behind his desk like a caged animal. Finally, he came around the front of the table.
His face blazed with fury.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“How dare you take him,” he said through clenched teeth. “That man is one of our best machine gunners and you almost got him killed. Soldiers like Feinberg don’t just grow on trees. I dropped into Normandy with him, you know.”
“I know. I am sorry.” He said nothing I didn’t already know. More guilt piled as heavy as a boulder on top of its predecessor.
“The German Army is collapsing in front of us. I can smell the end of this war, and you put this man into a deadly position.” He pointed an accusing finger at my chest. “For what? Some lord of the manor?”
He spoke the truth, providing the same arguments I used a week ago that Blaus and Fitzgerald had swatted away like gnats.
“What kind of game is your department playing here? You took an untrained man into the field for your ridiculous spy shenanigans? It’s irresponsible!” He grabbed my shoulders.
I’d never seen him so angry. I was both awed by and afraid of his savageness and couldn’t seem to get the words past my throat to defend the actions of my superiors or myself.
“Damnit, Lillian! What. The. Hell. Were. You. Thinking?” he shouted, emphasizing each word with a shake that rattled my teeth and loosened my topknot.
Pain speared through my left arm as his thumb dug into one of the still-healing burns, and I let out a yelp.
“Charles!” Jake barked. “You forget yourself.”
We both looked over my shoulder to find Devlin standing in the doorway, his face a dark thundercloud. Charlie released me so quickly I stumbled and would have fallen if Jake hadn’t leaped forward to steady me.
Mechanically, I rubbed the tender injury.
“What are you doing? Her burns are still healing,” he chided.
“My apologies. I don’t know what came over me.” Charlie turned his back on us, pressed his hands against the desk on stiff arms, and hung his head between quivering shoulders.
“Are you okay?” Devlin turned to me, his brown eyes solemn. “Do you need me to take you to see the doc?”
“No, I’m fine.” I pushed the falling hair out of my face. “Thank you all the same.” I guided him toward the door. “Give us a moment, would you?”
Jake glanced between the two of us, his mouth turned down. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. We’ll just be a few more minutes.”
He hesitated, staring at Charlie’s back.
“It’s all right now.” I patted his hand.
“I’ll be outside this door if you need anything.”
My face softened and I gave a brief nod as I coaxed him over the threshold. The round brass handle turned beneath my fingers, and the snick of the tongue into place sounded loud in the silence of the room. Charlie’s back no longer shook, and his shoulders had slumped forward in a downtrodden manner. An internal debate raged within me, and I struggled with the next words. In the last moments of his fury, I glimpsed another emotion. Something beyond the anger. Stark fear. Not fear for the sergeant. Fear for me. And I realized the fear fueled his rage.
“Charlie, come ... sit down.” I lowered myself into the chair recently vacated by Nigel.
He swung around—his features drawn and tense.
“Come on, have a seat.” I tapped the chair across from me with the toe of my shoe.
He dropped into the chair, pressing careworn fingers against his eyes. “My God, Lily, there aren’t enough words to express how sorry I am.”
I reached up and pulled those strong hands away. “I know. I understand.” Green eyes stared into blue.
“Why did the Brit keep calling you Gisele? Is that your real name?”
“No, it was my cover identification for the op.”
“How many different names have you gone by?”
“A few.”
“Cripes, do I even know your real name?”
I cringed. “My middle name is Lillian. I started using it in finishing school.”
“Saint James?”
“No.” I closed my eyes. “It’s Jolivet.” A sigh of relief escaped as the last lie fell away. “Besides the man who hired me to work for the OSS and a handful of staff members in D.C., you are now the only other person to know my real surname. When the OSS realized who my stepfather was, they changed my name to Saint James. I’m not even sure I know how to answer to my own name anymore. I’m as much Lillian Saint James as Jolivet.”
“And have you ever been a photojournalist?”
This man was better at breaking down my barriers and pulling information out of me than any interrogator I’d ever faced. “Sort of ... yes.” I sighed. “A cover identity isn’t a complete lie. The camera was my mother’s last gift to me while I was at boarding school. I was always taking photos, at Mont-Choisi, in Washington, D.C., even on the boat trip home from Switzerland. On the recommendation of one of my Washington roommates, I submitted and had photos published for local newspapers, and even Life magazine. I have a knack for photography. The department simply utilized a skill I’d already acquired. But that’s not why you’re angry.”
He stared. Silent. Brows knit. Scrutinizing.
“Charlie, please ... it is okay to be afraid for my safety. Don’t you know, ever since Paris, I have spent countless nights fearing you would be killed or injured? When I found out the 101st was sent into the Ardennes, I had nightmares you would be shot.” I held a hand up as if to push the idea of his bloodied body away and shook my head. “I think the worst part was not knowing. Not knowing if I would ever see you. Not being able to write, to assure myself you were okay.
“And then, when I’d lost all hope”—an image of the Victory Colt revolver muzzle aimed at my head shimmered in front of me—“that I—”
My hand pressed against my chest and I gulped down the rising emotion.
“—would make it out alive to see you again, you came to me in a ... a vision. It was nothing short of a miracle that your men arrived when they did, as though you’d sent them to me. And they brought me back to you.”
“Oh, Lily.” He scrubbed his face. “I’ve behaved like an ass. I know you were following orders, just like the men I lead. Just as I do. It’s the fact that people in our government move you around like ... like a pawn on the chessboard. They put you in harm’s way and it makes me ... go nuts. You’re right, it isn’t that Feinberg got injured. Nigel said you were almost shot...” He knuckled his eyes. “It’s that you ... you could have been killed...” He fell to his knees in front of me and hung his head. “I hate not knowing where you are. If you’re hurt, or even alive.”
His hair was soft from a recent washing and I ran my fingers through it. His hands wrapped around my waist and he laid a cheek on my thigh. “I hate the thought of you doing something like that again. Even if it is for the greater good. It’s been gnawing a hole in my gut since you left.”
I drew a nail around the shell of his ear. “You can stop worrying. This is probably my last mission. They’ll want to pull me out for a cooling-off period.” My shoulders drooped and a sigh escaped. “Frankly, I’m ashamed to admit ... I’m not sure I have the nerve go back in again.” I whispered the embarrassing confession.
“Don’t.” He placed a finger to my lips. “Don’t do that. You don’t ever have to feel ashamed. You’ve got more courage than half the army. I should know; I’ve seen some gutsy moves on the field.” In a fluid motion, he rolled back onto his heels, up into the chair, and pulled me forward, tucking me into his lap and wrapping his arms around me.
I confess, I could have happily spent the rest of my life ensconced in his embrace.
“I am exceptionally jealous of Peterson and Grimes ... and Glassman. Do you know why?”
I shook my head.
“Because they dish about their sweethearts. Read their letters. Share pictures. Those girls are working as teachers, secretaries, nurses, or in the factories. Some are taking care of babies. Do you know what they all have in common?”
I bit my lip and shrugged.
“They are home ... safe. Ever since you collapsed at the hotel, I thought, why must it be you? I asked God, ‘Why is it my girl insists on putting herself in danger?’ Why did I fall in love with a girl who speaks German and French like a native? A girl who voluntarily walks into the lion’s mouth? A girl with ... what did Nigel say ... gumption? Don’t you understand?” He cupped my cheeks in his hands. “I want to bundle you and your gumption up and ship you back to America. To wait for me in the safety of my family’s home.”
A balloon of joy expanded and eased the tightness of self-reproach in my chest. “Oh, but I do understand, Charlie. Don’t you think I want to do the same with you? Just as the women back home want to do with their own sweethearts. My darling, you are experiencing what every mother, wife, and girlfriend back home is feeling. We all pray for the same thing.” I twisted my head to kiss his hand. “Bring our loved ones home ... alive. American men are spoiled. There are so many soldiers here who have sweethearts in dangerous situations serving as nurses or ambulance drivers in France. Not to mention, every British soldier who’s left behind a loved one who could die in a German bombing raid on any given day. It is a fear we all share, and the sacrifice we make to keep our country safe.”
Charlie snuggled me close and laid a cheek atop my head. “I know. I know what it means to serve my country. I also know I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you if you weren’t exactly who you are. Fearless, brave ... a bit reckless?”
“Never fearless ... and not so brave. Don’t you realize, fear is the enemy sitting on my shoulder every day of every mission?” I inhaled. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to be in the relative safety of the rear.”
“Not nearly as relieved as I.” He took my hand in both of his, flipped the palm up, and traced a finger across the creases, sending shivers up my arm. A moment later he reached into his pocket, withdrew the compass, and coiled the chain into my palm. “I believe this is yours.”
I curled my fingers around the talisman.